Unhappily the other member of the Government, who had hitherto been silent, was a literary man. Unhappily, while this talk had proceeded, he had placed his hand upon Randal Leslie’s celebrated pamphlet, which lay on the library table; and, turning over the leaves, the whole spirit and matter of that masterly composition in defence of the administration (a composition steeped in all the essence of party) recurred to his too faithful recollection. He, too, liked Randal; he did more,—he admired the author of that striking and effective pamphlet. And therefore, rousing himself from the sublime indifference he had before felt for the fate of a subaltern, he said, with a bland and complimentary smile, “No; the writer of this most able publication is no ordinary placeman. His opinions here are too vigorously stated; this fine irony on the very person who in all probability will be the chief in his office has excited too lively an attention to allow him the sedet eternumque sedebit on an official stool. Ha, ha! this is so good! Read it, L’Estrange. What say you?” Harley glanced over the page pointed out to him. The original was in one of Burley’s broad, coarse, but telling burlesques, strained fine through Randal’s more polished satire. It was capital. Harley smiled, and lifted his eyes to Randal. The unlucky plagiarist’s face was flushed,—the beads stood on his brow. Harley was a good hater; he loved too warmly not to err on the opposite side; but he was one of those men who forget hate when its object is distressed and humbled. He put down the pamphlet and said, “I am no politician; but Egerton is so well known to be fastidious and over-scrupulous in all points of official etiquette, that Mr. Leslie cannot follow a safer counsellor.”
“Read that yourself, Egerton,” said Sir ——; and he pushed the pamphlet to Audley.
Now Egerton had a dim recollection that that pamphlet was unlucky; but he had skimmed over its contents hastily, and at that moment had forgotten all about it. He took up the too famous work with a reluctant hand, but he read attentively the passages pointed out to him, and then said gravely and sadly,
“Mr. Leslie, I retract my advice. I believe Sir —— is right,—that the nobleman here so keenly satirized will be the chief in your office. I doubt whether he will not compel your dismissal; at all events, he could scarcely be expected to promote your advancement. Under the circumstances, I fear you have no option as a—” Egerton paused a moment, and, with a sigh that seemed to settle the question, concluded with—“as a gentleman.”
Never did Jack Cade, never did Wat Tyler, feel a more deadly hate to that word “gentleman” than the well-born Leslie felt then; but he bowed his head, and answered with his usual presence of mind,
“You utter my own sentiment.”
“You think we are right, Harley?” asked Egerton, with an irresolution that surprised all present.
“I think,” answered Harley, with a compassion for Randal that was almost over-generous, and yet with an equivoque on the words, despite the compassion,—“I think whoever has served Audley Egerton never yet has been a loser by it; and if Mr. Leslie wrote this pamphlet, he must have well served Audley Egerton. If he undergoes the penalty, we may safely trust to Egerton for the compensation.”
“My compensation has long since been made,” answered Randal, with grace; “and that Mr. Egerton could thus have cared for my fortunes, at an hour so occupied, is a thought of pride which—”
“Enough, Leslie! enough!” interrupted Egerton, rising and pressing his protege’s hand. “See me before you go to bed.”